They've got a ticket to ride and they don't care

Damn you Cadel Evans. The Aussie's inspirational win in this year's Tour de France can mean only one thing for us poor motorists. More pelotons of lycra-clad, leg-shaven Cadel wannabes clogging up our arterials.

They've got a ticket to ride and they don't care

He says: Damn you Cadel Evans. The Aussie's inspirational win in this year's Tour de France can mean only one thing for us poor motorists.

More pelotons of lycra-clad, leg-shaven Cadel wannabes clogging up our arterials. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a cyclist-hater, I just wish they'd be a bit more considerate.

And to those cyclists hurriedly organising a lynch-mob for me, let me ask you this: what would you do if you were lined up three-deep at the bar and some bloke jumped the queue?

What if he then ordered not six beers but six different cocktails.

And what if, as soon as he had dished them out to his mates, he returned to repeat the affront?

Now how is that different to pushing to the front of a traffic queue, running the red to get in front of everyone and then, once the traffic has finally managed to weave its way past you, repeating the dose at the next lights.

And don't get me started on the could-have-been-Contadors and should-have-been-Schlecks that carry on as if they're tackling the Pyrenees with a fresh dose of the good stuff coursing through their veins.

If you find courier cyclists a little confrontational, then look the other way as you pass these part-time peloton poseurs.

Not only do they hog entire roads but they get mighty sniffy if you try to pass them, let alone sound the horn.

I'm seriously thinking of starting a power-walking club so we can go out in big packs and get in their way.

And what's with all the branded gear and shaved legs? Surely you're not all professionals. I like the odd kick around with the footy but I don't wear a mouthguard and get strapped by the physio every time I go to the local park.

If you must wear lycra, at least buy a new pair once in a while. There's no worse sight than some bloke who's worn the lycra so thin, you can almost make out the goosebumps on his carefully manicured testicles. Damn you Cadel!

She says: There is wisdom in your testicles, sorry, testament against cycling poseurs. As a cyclist, I have often encountered fellow pedallers in eye-wateringly form-hugging Lycra with denuded calves and supercilious road manners.

But flashy wheelturners make me smile. These are people – well, men, as most of them are – who are excited about cycling. They may be a little – ahem – defined around the gentleman’s downstairs area. They may shave their legs to make their calf muscles stand out.

But, crucially, they are pro cycling. No one who cycles in Sydney is doing it because it’s easy. It can be fun, exhilarating and healthy. But it is never a cinch.

For one thing, this city is not designed for bicycles. Yes, there are bike lanes popping up but they’re meagre in the grand scheme of things. Cars rule.

Asking motorists to share space with bicycles on our narrow, hilly, clogged and bumpy roads is unfair and I say that as a cyclist riding to work most days. So it’s up to us.

There will always be idiots driving cars and bicycles but it’s the latter everyone’s obsessed with at the moment. Cyclists need to shine in the eyes of motorists and, just as importantly, pedestrians.

When I’m waiting at a red light on my bicycle, it’s embarrassing when other cyclists sail through. It’s discomforting when cyclists are pushy near pedestrians on shared footpaths.

Why do they do it? Because they feel superior? Because their knicks have worn through and they’re keen to show some intimate particulars?

The riled drivers and pedestrians end up shouting and beeping at all the cyclists who ride courteously. All because they saw your two-wheeling superiority complex jump a red.

One day I’m going to wave you pillocks down and poke you in your privates with my kick stand. Hard. It will be a pleasure to watch you ride with sudden delicacy and care afterwards.